Comfort and Joy
by LizBee
Summary: Russell greets her aunt's Christmas celebrations with something less than enthusiasm.


**Title**: Comfort and Joy  
**Author**: LizBee  
**Summary**: In which Russell greets her aunt's Christmas celebrations with something less than enthusiasm.  
**Rated**: PG-13  
**Warnings**: Minor canon-stretching. Also: Lame.  
**Fandom**: Mary Russell  
**Spoilers**: BEEK, allusions to MREG.  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine. No profit. Now read on.  
**Notes**: This is what happens when you leave yourself open to blackmail; that is, you expose Branwyn to a truly awful, brain-destroying icon, and she demands fic as compensation. What kind of fic? Oh, hurt/comfort Christmas schmoop will do nicely.  
**Email**: elizabethbarr and Joy  
By a LizBee

The Dream came for me with ever-increasing frequency over the Christmas period of 1915. Night after night, while the house was readied for a Jewish family's Christmas celebrations, I would wake with sour vomit in my throat, shivering, yet sticky with sweat.

I spent my days in an exhausted, irritable haze, and my nights in a nervous half-sleep. My elderly great-aunt, though senile, was restful company compared with my other relatives, and I spent long hours sitting with her, reading from my mother's worn Hebrew Bible and nodding appropriately as she lamented the family's collapse into decay and gentilism. It was Judith's fault, she said, for marrying that American; nothing had been the same after she left. Such a shame that Judith was dead, and her sister said the daughter was a hoyden, running wild through the countryside with strange men, and getting up to who knew what? So sad, that Judith had died

Once, I looked up from this tirade and found my great-uncle, my grandfather's brother, looking down at me with a disapproving eye, and I knew exactly whose opinions my aunt was echoing.

Normally I would have sought refuge with Patrick, but he was spending Christmas with his children. I was strongly tempted to gather my things and walk to Holmes's cottage, but my aunt must have guessed what I was thinking, for she cornered me after lunch - a tedious meal that suffered under the restrictions of war rationing - and gave me to understand that if I left now, I need not plan to return.

"I'm quite sure your trustees would appreciate the wisdom of sending you to boarding school, Mary," she said softly, her strong fingers gripping my arm.

"You'd have to move out of my house," I said.

"Dear child, who would make a home for you between terms? Who else would they appoint as caretaker?"

The possibility was too awful to consider. I drew myself up to my full height and pulled my arm away with as much dignity as I could muster, but I could see no way to argue with her.

The tilt of her head and the amusement in her eye made her look suddenly like my mother. Sick to my stomach, I turned my back on her and fled to my room, where I plotted improbable revenge.

I didn't go down to dinner; I told my second cousin, when she asked, that I was sick. I sat at my desk and tried to write; when fatigue made the pen heavy, I tried to read.

Eventually, my eyes, too, failed me, and I fell asleep.

The Dream didn't come, at first. Memories, yes, awful and distorted by memory and sleep, but not the Dream. My mind conjured up the tasteless food I'd been given last Christmas, at the convalescent home, and my pleasure at the small gift Doctor Ginzberg had sent: a volume of Hebrew poetry. I had received a handful of cards from my father's lawyer and my mother's friends, but the doctor's book was the only thing I kept.

The year before that, my family had been alive, enduring Christmas in Boston. My father was the happiest of all of us to leave; he'd been singing, badly, as we started the journey home, and my mother had laughed, and shushed him.

I remembered the train jerking as it prepared to move out of the station, and my father saying something, and then everything changed, and the Dream took over, just as I'd known it would.

When I woke up, my throat was hoarse from screaming. Firm hands gripped my shoulders, and I opened my eyes and looked up into my aunt's face.

"Quiet," she snapped. "You'll wake the house."

Down the corridor, I could hear people stirring.

"Truly, Mary, I don't know what possessed you." I tried to sit up, but she was holding me down. "Have you lost your senses?"

"Maybe," I said. My mouth was dry, and it hurt to speak. "Let me up."

"No. You're not leaving this room. These hysterical nightmares are no reason to go roaming about the house at night. Stay-"

It wasn't the first time she'd tried to question me about my nocturnal disturbances, but she'd never actually woken me before. I was disoriented and shaking, and she was still trying to ask questions.

I'd had, I decided, quite enough.

I got to my feet, found to my secret relief that my legs held me up, and made for the door. Her face was furious as she moved towards me, reaching for my arm to grab me and spin me around to face her.

I punched her without thinking, and as she went flying, I realised what I'd done and what it would mean for me, and my sudden elation was mixed with fear.

I ran down the stairs, half-panicking, dodging my great-uncle's reaching arms and pushing my second cousin out of my path. I found my boots by the back door, and was halfway to the gate before I realised that I was wearing nothing but a nightgown, and that, unexpectedly and unusually, it had snowed during the night.

I kept running, and although my chest was burning, I didn't let myself cry.

I set out for Holmes's cottage, of course; I could imagine no other possible destination, and I could hardly make my situation at this point worse. I avoided the road and took a circuitous route over the downs, but my feet were numb and my body was cold, and I was not halfway there before my strength gave out.

I found a rock half-sheltered by a stunted tree and sat down, curling myself into a ball and rubbing my feet. I was already regretting my stupidity: Patrick's son's home had been far closer, and he surely would have taken me in for a few hours, while I pulled myself together and prepared to creep back to the farm to throw myself on my aunt's mercy.

It was too cold to stay sitting; my whole body was becoming numb, and if I stayed any longer, I would lose all inclination to move again. I climbed to my feet, wincing as pain shot through every nerve in my toes, and set off, half-running and half-staggering towards refuge.

Along the way, I realised that I was certainly not going to make it, and that if I collapsed too far from the road, I might not be found. At that point, I was ready for almost anyone to come across me, be they angry relatives or white slavers bound for parts unknown. I made my way back to the road, which was potted and uneven, and kept going. My whole body was concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, although the ground seemed to rise to meet me with every step, and I was having trouble staying awake.

It occurred to me that it was a good thing I wasn't walking along the cliffs, because I would have surely gone over, and then I remembered the Dream, and for a moment, I lost all will to move.

Just a moment, but it was enough.

A sob escaped my lips as I hit the ground, but I bit them to keep from crying. I tasted warm blood, and it took me back to the accident: hitting the asphalt, the approach of a stranger. Strong arms picking me up, heedless of my injuries, and carrying me to a car. The pain had been unbearable, but I was only half-conscious, and lacked the strength to cry out. I endured it in silence, although it almost drove me mad.

I hated my rescuer for months. I never learnt his name.

Now, I was distantly aware of my saviour's heartbeat against my ear, and beyond it, the sound of heavy boots treading through melting snow. The scent of tobacco permeated the coat he wrapped around my freezing limbs, and for the moment, I realised that I was safe.

We walked in silence for a long time, while I existed in a half-sleep that separated me from any pain, leaving me entirely numb.

I tried to speak at one point, to tell him I was sorry for the trouble I was inflicting upon him, but I couldn't form the words.

In the cottage, I was bundled in blankets and laid out in front of the fire, shivering violently while Mrs Hudson held my hands and gave me empty reassurances. I was wracked with guilt over the concern in her eyes, but she wouldn't let me apologise. And all the while, Holmes hovered behind me, smoking, his eyes fixed on the back of my head.

The sun was rising. It was, I thought absurdly, Christmas morning. There were no decorations, or any nonsense of that sort, but the house gleamed, a testament to Mrs Hudson's polishing and scrubbing over recent weeks.

When I could speak at last, I said, "Thank you." And then, "I'm sorry."

"Nonsense, Mary," Mrs Hudson said. She pushed a strand of hair out of my face and got to her feet. "I'll fix some breakfast, dear, you look all done in."

I nodded. When we were alone, Holmes walked around me and sat in his usual chair.

"Your cook had the presence of mind to call Mrs Hudson as soon as she'd realised what had happened," he said.

"Oh. Good." She would no doubt find her employment terminated when my aunt found out; I made a mental note to somehow ensure that she had a reference and a bonus.

"I assume you had good reason to flee your family."

His tone was noncommittal, but his eyes seemed to probe for some evidence of abuse. I drew the blankets more tightly around myself and muttered, "It's difficult to explain."

I was expecting sarcasm, or an acerbic demand for clarification, but he merely nodded gently and said, "Will you be all right?" Which I took to mean that if I was in any way afraid for my well-being, the power of superior forces would be invoked on my behalf.

I was tempted to tell him everything, from the accident to the Dream to my aunt's endless petty cruelties.

I closed my mouth tight, lest I betray myself, and nodded.

I wasn't aware of the tears in my eyes until they spilt down my cheeks. Holmes pushed his handkerchief into my hand. He hovered a moment, hesitating, then got to his feet, his fingers brushing my shoulder. He walked away without speaking, leaving me alone to gather myself.

When Mrs Hudson returned, I forced a little food down my throat, and let her help me upstairs. The bed was already made up, and I marvelled at her generosity. It was a stark contrast to my aunt's regime, and I was once again on the verge of tears as I climbed under the covers.

I slept deeply, and didn't dream.

It was dark when I woke. I sat up slowly, feeling both ashamed of my earlier stupidity and relieved to be with Holmes instead of my family. I switched the lamp on and got up, finding clothes laid out for me: trousers and a shirt, smelling faintly of mothballs and tobacco. Holmes's, and welcome. Mrs Hudson had provided clean socks, too, thick and warm and unspeakably comforting. So armed, I opened the door and went in search of Holmes.

I found him in the laboratory, experimenting with something sulphurous. A window had been thrown open, and the cold air came as a shock to my much-abused body. My breath caught in my throat, and Holmes looked up. He started to move to the window, but I said, "Don't. It's all right."

He stopped, but there was still concern in his face as he turned back to his experiment.

"I had a visit from your relatives today."

"My aunt?"

"No, curiously enough. Your great-uncle and his sister."

"Ah. The heads of the family."

Holmes added a catalysing agent to the beaker in his hand, and watched the reaction as he spoke.

"I was given to understand that you are a spoilt child, dangerously indulged by your parents, tainted by your father's Anglican blood and possibly mad besides."

"Yes. That's about what I had expected."

"However, your uncle has no great love for your aunt, either."

I thought of him, standing by the window and watching the stupid 'Christmas' celebrations, and nodded.

"She intends to send you away to boarding school. I note that no mention was made of her moving out of your house."

"No. I know." I told him about my aunt's threat. My voice was perfectly steady as I finished, "after this morning's display, I suspect I'll be sent away as soon as she finds a school that will take me for the spring term."

"I wouldn't worry about that." Holmes raised the beaker to the level of his eyes. "I've no doubt your trustees will refuse to grant permission."

I stared at him, trying to fathom his precise meaning. He did nothing so obvious as to smile, but there was a certain degree of satisfaction in his demeanour which led me to believe that a number of machinations had taken place while I was asleep. And on Christmas Day, too. The man's abilities were extraordinary.

"Holmes," I began, and then stopped. Unable to speak, and unable to find words even if my mouth would form them.

"Not to worry, Russell," he said gently. "Consider it a Christmas gift if you must, and think no more of it."

The tightness in my chest began to ease.

"Are all your Christmases so eventful?" I asked. My voice was not precisely light, but it did not fail me.

"On the contrary. I usually consider Christmas an unspeakably tedious ordeal."

His tone implied that the entire holiday had possibly been conceived to cause him inconvenience; I smiled despite myself and said, "Then I'm glad I broke your routine. Although risking death by exposure was not part of the intention."

Now he did smile, and I saw relief behind it. "I'm very pleased to hear it, Russell." He took up another beaker and set it down beside a set of test tubes. "Come here. I'll teach you how to make a simple explosive."

"Mrs Hudson will not thank you for blowing up the house."

"I have no intention of blowing anything up, thank you. With these tiny quantities, the reaction is infinitesimal."

"I hope so."

I watched him for a minute, not only the chemicals he was measuring, but the movement of his hands and the alert intelligence in his face. He was curiously alive, in a way that my family was not, or perhaps it was the simple fact that he, unlike them, was interested in me.

I must have laughed, for he looked over at me and said, "Yes?"

"Nothing. I was merely thinking that this is possibly the nicest Christmas I've ever experienced."

"Your near-death aside," he measured one tiny drop of acid into the test tube, and we were rewarded with a minute spark, "I agree entirely."

There were a great many things I wanted to say to them, but I could hardly imagine putting them into words and speaking them out loud.

It didn't matter. I accepted a fresh test tube from his hands and prepared to repeat the experiment, and realised that there was no need for words at all.

end


End file.
